Flight
by Kichi Hisaki
Summary: "I'm not going back, Greg," he spat. "You'd have to drag me back dead." "Well," Greg flicked his eyes down to his knife, flicking it between his fingers, before locking eyes with Desmond, expression turning preditory. "I'm sure that can be arranged." (Series of snippets, no pairings)


Hello, Kichi Hisaki here!

Okay, so I was frustrated with the lack of info in the games about Desmond's back story - I mean, sure, you find out the BIG things, like that his dad is the Mentor for the Farm, he ran away from the Assassin life when he was just a teen, and that he did his damned best to not be found by anyone. But other than being bored of being told the fairy tales of Assassins vs. Templars and never being able to leave the compound, you don't get much info on his "home" life, and other than doing his best not to get found and eventually getting a job as a bartender, you don't get a lot of info on his experience outside of the Farm. So I did this. And it doesn't necessarily answer any of my questions, but it opens up the plot bunnies and allows them to make me some headcannons.

So, read and make headcannons to your hearts content!

Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed or any of its amazing characters. Though I really wish I had a Malik of my own, because he's awesome.

(Also, may have gotten Desmond's age wrong at the end, but whatever.)

Onward Reading!

* * *

_Start_

* * *

**16 years, 3 months, 7 days**

Desmond groaned with relief as he plopped onto the lumpy couch in the break room, small smile on his face as he leaned back and let his back pop. Across the room his co-worker Kevin dug into the fridge and pulled out a couple of water bottles. "Here, catch," he called, tossing on of the cool bottles to the exhausted teen.

He caught it with slightly clumsy hands, the night's work catching up to him. "Thanks," he said, twisting off the cap and taking several gulps.

Kevin grinned at him and took a swig, letting out a breath and wiping his mouth when done. "You did good today, Jake," he said. "Fast and hard working – wish I could have more protege's like you."

Desmond laughed, scratching the back of his head. "Look at you, talking like you're the manager of this place."

Kevin snickered. "Hey, it could happen."

"Well, thanks, I guess." Almost with reluctance, Desmond stood, stretching up with his arms and then setting his water on the table beside the couch. "I'll be back, gonna use the restroom. All that heavy lifting almost made me forget that I had a bladder."

"Alright, but don't take too long, 'kay? Boss wants to talk to you before you leave."

With a wave Desmond left the room, heading down the hallway to the left and making his way into the men's restroom.

Working at a warehouse packing and unpacking supplies for several hours a night wasn't usually a teen's first choice of job, but since leaving the Farm, Desmond didn't really have much choice on where to go for money without getting an ID or license of any sort. But it brought him good money, better than bagging groceries at a hole-in-the wall convenience store and better than turning to the streets for money and possibly getting caught by the police. If the police got involved, then chances were he'd be _found_.

Desmond hummed as he washed his hands, wondering what the boss wanted to talk about. It had only been three weeks since he'd started working there – and getting the job hadn't necessarily been a picnic. The man had been hesitant to employ a teen just barely able to shave, let alone one without any proper documentation, but after a quick trial run he'd been convinced that "Jake" would work out at the warehouse. Maybe he'd finally let him work without someone to watch him? Kevin was awesome, a great guy to work with and he was always cracking jokes and singing _something_, but it'd be nice to work without someone keeping an eye on him all the time.

"So, _Jake_, are you even old enough to work here?"

Desmond froze, hand outstretched to twist the faucet off.

He _knew _that voice.

"Or did you lie about your age, say that you were over eighteen? Must've been hard, what with your still cracking voice and all."

He clenched his teeth, slowly turning the faucet and reaching a hand out to grab a paper towel to dry his hands off with. "How'd you find me?" Slowly turning, Desmond fixed a glare at the other man in the restroom, who casually leaned against one of the stalls.

Greg chuckled, not even looking at the teen, instead choosing the pick at his nails with one of his throwing daggers. "Oh, it was simple enough," he said, pushing off the stall and walking towards the sinks. "You must've thought you were so clever, getting away from your dad and all, but you left a trail – made an impression on some of the people you've come across." He checked his face in the mirror in front of him, scratching at the stubble on his chin. "You should know better than that – Assassins can't make those sort of connections, Des."

"I'm _not_ an Assassin."

Greg sent him a look, one that belied his casual expression. "Your dear father seems to think otherwise."

Desmond willed his hands not to clench into fist. "_Fuck him_."

"Oooh, where'd you learn that one? Certainly not from your daddy dearest, he's better than that," Greg mocked, smile cold. "But – I'm sure he'll get your attitude in line once you're back home. He always does."

Desmond shifted his feet, barely letting his back crouch down. "I'm not going back, Greg," he spat. "You'd have to drag me back dead."

"Well," Greg flicked his eyes down to his knife, flicking it between his fingers, before locking eyes with Desmond, expression turning preditory. "I'm sure that can be arranged."

* * *

Desmond left Greg in the restroom, bleeding sluggishly in one of the stalls. He stopped by the office briefly to pick up that night's pay and left.

He was the next state over by the time the sun rose over the horizon.

* * *

**17 years, 6 months, 22 days**

"Desmond, please, come home. I miss you, my baby boy – you know I love you, right?"

Desmond's eyes burned, and he slammed a fist into the rotting wood wall beside him. "If you – if you really loved me, Mom," he rasped, vision blurring just a bit, "you'd have stood up to Dad when he thought he was teaching me a _lesson._"

"No, no, honey, it's not like that, he was – "

"I'm done. That place was never my home."

"Please, Des – "

"I'm _never_ going back."

"Des – "

He tossed the phone as hard as he could into the sea. He wasn't sure how far it went – instead he curled up on the docks and clutched his white hoodie to himself, gasping in breaths and cursing his life.

* * *

**17 years, 10 months, 27 days**

He was almost mugged once, when he decided to visit the state of Nevada.

_Almost_ because the men who tried to corner him ended up bleeding – maybe dead – in the alley they pushed him in, Desmond barely making it back down the street towards the small efficiency he called home before vomiting on the side of the road, mind flashing to the men's faces as he grasped a broken pipe and swung it up to meet the side of their heads.

When he finally got back home, he took a shower, grabbed all the cash he had and a spare change of clothes before catching the bus.

He got off the bus only to catch another one. This one went all the way to Oklahoma.

* * *

**18 years, 7 months, 11 days**

"What's your name, sugar?"

Desmond blearily stared up at the blonde next to him, scrunching his brow at the woman with the baby doll makeup and revealing clothes under a large fur coat. "It's...uh, it's Ed," he mumbled, folding himself into the warmth of his hoodie.

"Well, Ed, I've got a deal for you," she said, flicking a manicured hand through her voluminous locks. "I've seen you standin' out here almost every night for a week. A boy your age shouldn't be out here on the streets if he's got a home to go back to. What say you to coming back with me?"

Desmond stared at her, squint his eyes. "...What's the catch?"

She smiled, all teeth between glittery lips and fluttered his too-long lashes at him. "You get a roof and a hot meal," she said, voice low and simpering, "so long as you let me take _good_ care of you." She leaned in, pressing her warm front to his side.

"What's it gonna be, sugar?"

He swallowed. Desmond knew what she was asking, he wasn't dumb. He shouldn't, he knew he shouldn't, but she was promising him food – something he'd run out of two days ago – and a bed for the night.

How long had it been since he'd slept in a bed?

* * *

He left the next morning long before she woke, bite marks outlined by glittering lipstick on his neck and feeling like he would never get the feeling of _wrong_ out of his skin.

* * *

**21 years, 5 months, 9 days**

Desmond had finally found his niche.

A small – but insanely busy – bar called Benny's was hiring help. He'd started out four months ago as just a busser, but after a couple weeks he'd become enthralled by the art of bar-tending. And it was an art – some might've called mixing drinks a science, but in the end it all came down to what his gut told him. When to add the vodka, how long to shake, which girl wanted Crown and which one wanted Grey Goose.

Fuckin' _art_. And he was fuckin' _good_ at it.

He was finally on the right track – it'd been months since he'd seen another Assassin, months since he'd last had to change his name, and he was rolling in the dough. It was fantastic. He'd even gone on a limb and bought a motorcycle.

And _ooh, _wasn't she _beautiful._

Sasha ran like a dream, a deep rumbling purr and when Desmond raced her down the freeway late at night, when the cops were on shift change, she flew down the streets like lightening.

Desmond should have known though.

Since when was he able to ever have nice things?

* * *

"Desmond Miles?"

"I-I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong person. Nobody here goes by that name."

"I'm afraid you'll have to come with us, Mr. Miles."

"Wait, no, I told you I'm not – hey, get off me!"

"Please don't fight us, Mr. Miles. Cooperation would be in your best interest."

"_Fuck _you, I'm not – !"

"Mr. Miles, don't make this anymore difficult than it needs to be."

"I'm not – I'm not going back to the Farm!"

"The Farm? Oh, no, Mr. Miles, we're not Assassin's. Men, put him out."

"Not Assass – hey, wait, no, I'm not done talking to you, I – ouch! That, that...hurt..."

"Good night, Mr. Miles. Pleasant dreams."

* * *

_**DNA Sequence: Altair Ibn-La'Ahad**_

_**Loading Latest Memory...**_

_**Memory Loaded**_

_**Synchonization: 98%**_

* * *

_End_

* * *

So. I really fucking hate the fact that you can't use your own break lines on the freaking website. It's annoying, and it's stupid to use a whole freaking break line when you only need to separate a sentence or two from the rest of the story. Please tell me I'm not the only one here?

Anyway, Love you!

Review!

Hearts. :)


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